


Habits

by Fidix



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2665292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fidix/pseuds/Fidix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because you’re gone and I’ve got to stay high all the time to keep you off my mind.<br/>Spending my days locked in a haze, trying to forget you.<br/>I got to stay high, all the time, to forget I'm missing you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Habits

It didn’t scare him, being alone. Will has always been alone. Besides, he has his dogs; all strays, just like him. Collected, just as he had been collected. Collected by the FBI, by Jack Crawford, for the things he could do. For his _empathy_. Will says it with malice, now. He didn’t always. Not while Hannibal was still around. Not while Hannibal was still here to make him feel _special_. Not while he was in Hannibal’s _collection_.

Will knows he shouldn’t miss him. He knows how twisted it is and how disgusting it makes him feel, knowing that Jack is dead and Alana is still recovering from her fall months later and will be for many more. And Abigail… he stops there. He won’t think of her. Not now. He can’t. It’s too confusing, the love he has for her and the betrayal he can still feel ripping through him is more painful than the blade Hannibal drug through his gut. All of this because of Hannibal, the man Will never could and still can’t get out of his head.  

Except for when he can. Staying high usually does the trick. Popping a new pill every time the trip ends usually keeps Hannibal out of Will’s head. Keeps everythings out of Will’s head, really. Even himself sometimes. A good thing, really, because Will’s head isn’t a good place to get lost, in his opinion.

_Because you’re gone and I’ve got to stay high all the time to keep you off my mind._

Will hasn’t _empathized_ in months, hasn’t spoken to anyone in months. Not that there’s really anyone left to speak to. It’s too painful. Everything reminds him of Hannibal, of what he lost because of Hannibal. Reminds him of losing Hannibal. And so he does copious amounts of drugs. Too many. They’re eroding him away, he can tell. In the brief time between highs, he’s starting to feel the difference. It scares him, but not as much as mourning Hannibal’s absence does.

He just wishes he’d stayed. Wishes he’d taken him too, better yet. Swept him off somewhere new, just them. Alone together. Will would have done it. Gone with him, if he’d asked. He would have gone and let Hannibal turn him into whatever he wanted to turn him into. Because Hannibal understood him. Because at least with Hannibal, he wasn’t alone. They understood each other.

_Without each other, we are alone._

Hannibal had said that to him, once. Will thought he’d meant it. That through all of Hannibal’s twisting and destroying and _killing_ , he’d always have a place for Will. Was Hannibal alone now, away from Will?

Everything spins. Will wonders where he is. He can’t quite make out specific shapes. Every time he thinks he recognises something, it slips away just as fast. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care anymore. He’ll make it back to his house eventually. Maybe. It doesn’t really matter. He just wants to sleep. Sleep and maybe, this time, he won’t wake up. He doesn’t want to deal with anything anymore. It’s too much, loving Hannibal and hating Hannibal.

_Spending my days locked in a haze, trying to forget you._

Will watches the spinning, relaxing into it. The blurts of colors that explode every now and then are beautifully distracting. Something is wet on his hand, but when he lifts it, there’s four of them and none of them appear to have anything wet on them. He shrugs, not that there’s anyone around to see anyway. He rolls over, and promptly falls onto something hard. The fall lasts a millenium to Will, though it’s only a second in reality. He floats for a minute before he finally lands on his chest, cheek pressed against cold wood floors.

It doesn’t hurt; nothing hurts when you’re high. He laughs a little. It’s not real, but it’s as real as it can be for someone like him.

Maybe he’ll just stay here on the floor. It seems like a good place for someone like him, he thinks. And so he dozes off to that. High as he can be and safe in slumber is his normal routine these days. Because nightmares are better than the real thing. At least he’s consistent.

______________________________________________________________________

Even when he’s asleep, he can’t escape Hannibal. He hears him calling to him, remembers his hypnosis and how much he liked being under his control. Hannibal thought it was his influence that made Will the way he is. Hannibal’s careful construction and molding of Will’s mind. But all he did was give Will the excuse. He gave him a way to give in to his desires, and Will misses that almost as much as he misses Hannibal.

_Got to stay high all my life to forget I’m missing you._

______________________________________________________________________                            

When he wakes, he immediately vomits. He makes it to the bathroom, but not fast enough to get to the toilet. Instead he opts for the tub, because he’s too disoriented to aim for the sink and the tub is closer. His curls stick to his head with sweat as he heaves. He doesn’t remember the last time he ate, so he’s mostly just dry heaving, but’s it’s still painful on his lungs and belly where his scar is. The scar Hannibal gave him.

Will leans his head on the side of the tub, letting it cool him until he feels like he can get up without falling over. He grabs the glass he keeps beside the sink and fills it with tap water, slowly sipping it until it’s gone. He heads to the kitchen, not bothering to grab something to eat. He’ll just puke it up anyway. His dogs follow him, worried and hungry. His dogs are the only constants in his life. Caring for them is almost as good as taking drugs. It’s familiar, something he did before Hannibal and will always be just Will without Hannibal’s influence. It’s a lifeline in the sea Hannibal has left him drowning in.

Will grabs the bag of dog food and pours each dog a bowlful. They sit and wait for Will’s whistle, which serves as the ‘okay’. He smiles at them as they scurry to their given bowl. He loves his dogs. When they’re done, he lets them out, watching from inside as they romp around in the snow. Used to, he’d romp with them, not bothering to put on shoes or pants, just barreling out into the cold with his seven best friends. Those days have passed. They left with Hannibal, somewhere Will can’t find.

Will waits for them to come whine at the door for him to let them back in. He does, mug of black coffee in his hand now, and laughs when they stumble around each other to get out of the cold.

And that’s it. He’s cared for his dogs. They’re all doing their own thing now, paying little attention to Will. Distraction over. Time to find another drug. And he does, settling himself down on the couch while he waits for it to kick in. Because isn’t that what he’s always doing? Waiting? Waiting for the drugs. Waiting for Hannibal. Same thing, really, because being with Hannibal is like being on drugs. Maybe that’s what he’s doing; looking for Hannibal anywhere he thinks he can find him.

_Because you’re gone and I’ve got to stay high all the time to keep you off my mind._

 


	2. Chapter 2

Another trip is ending. He comes down slowly, gradually falling, then all at once. He’s being sucked back into reality faster than he can control, and it’s disorienting. He pukes. Again. It’s not uncommon for him, happens almost every time, but he expects it this time. The half empty bottle of whiskey beside him was definitely full twenty-four hours ago. Will wonders, as he vomits up the remnants of the drugs and the half-bottle of whiskey, how he’s still able to function. None of this is good for his body, and it’s been going on for months. He’d expected - hoped - it would have killed him by now.

Yet here he sits. Waiting.

Waiting for a man he knows will never come back; waiting for a man he’s not alive enough to go and find himself. He pulls himself off the ground; he must’ve fallen off the couch at some point and decided to stay there.

Will carefully avoids the small puddle of mostly liquor as he picks his way towards the kitchen to grab a roll of paper towels. He throws a few on top the vomit and cleans the spot on the floor, not bothering to scrub too hard because he knows he’s probably just going to vomit there again at some point. As long as he’s not walking through it, why should he care?

He makes his way towards the bathroom, deciding a shower would be good, as much as he doesn’t want to bother. He strips, wrinkling his nose at the nasty smell of his clothes. What day is it? When was the last time he showered or changed his clothes? He can’t remember; he doesn’t know. He hasn’t known in a long time. Time isn’t a relevant thing anymore. Why keep track of time when everyone is gone? He doesn’t have anywhere to be or anything to do. He stopped paying attention to time a long while ago.

The warm water feels good on his skin, he has to admit. The foam of the shampoo that smells like mint and the gritty texture of the exfoliating body wash is relaxing. He feels better than he has in a long time, standing there in that shower. He feels like he’s sloughing off a layer of himself he’s been trying to get rid of for a long time. A layer of Hannibal, really, because most of the things he doesn't want anymore is Hannibal's influence. It's useless, having all of that knowledge, without Hannibal. So he doesn't want it. He scrubs at his skin, trying to scrape off everything Hannibal left him with. He works too hard; his arm hurts and his skin is starting to feel raw from the little exfoliation bits, but he doesn't care because he thinks it's helping. 

And then Jack Crawford flashes across his mind, glass shank protruding from his neck, laying in a puddle of his own blood, and the momentary peace is gone. He’s on the shower floor shaking as he waits for the images to pass. He shivers even though it’s not cold, because Alana is shivering as she lays out in the rain after her fall and he can’t help but become what he sees.  He knows who’s next; he can feel her coming. Her presence is dark, clouded in his mind. He’s made her that way, because he doesn’t want to see her anymore. Will just wants to escape her.

He shuts off the shower, cold now that the water isn’t running over him. It doesn’t matter, he has to get _out_. Right _now_. He doesn’t bother grabbing a towel or clothes, just runs across the wood naked, dripping water onto the floor and slipping every couple of feet. But he has to find something, he doesn’t want to _think_ , he doesn’t want to see.

He makes it to his room with only a couple of falls. Will shuffles over to his bedside table, riffling through the contents. He’s got to have _something_. Anything. He doesn’t even care at this point, as long as it knocks him into another world that isn’t anywhere near as shitty as this one. He growls when he finds nothing, the sound barely human. Will makes his way to the  other places he usually keeps his drugs, and is unsuccessful until the last one. He opens it slowly, knowing what is waiting for him in this one. There is a reason this drawer is his last pick.

The clear vial stares up at him, taunting him. The needle is capped, but that means nothing; it's a false sense of safety from what he’s about to put in his veins.

Will grabs the vial and makes his way to his room. He stares at it for a while, cold but unable to move or look away as he sits on the side of his bed. He's never tried this one before, and didn't really intend to when he bought it. He doesn't know if he wants to now. Will continues to stare at it, studying it, waiting for it to tell him that this is a good idea, because he knows it's not. But it's just a vial. Just a piece of plastic. It's his call.

Finally, he nods and crawls under the covers. Anything is better with dealing with the things that have happened. Anything is better than thinking of Abigail or Hannibal or Jack or Alana or _anyone._ He doesn't want to remember or wonder or _feel_ anything anymore. And this will allow him that.

He doesn't bother to put on clothes. He likes the feeling of being unrestrained, anyway. He makes himself comfortable, tucking himself in so he - hopefully - won’t fall off the bed again. He uncaps the needle using his thumb. His hands shake; he’s never tried this one before. Will injects himself slowly, try his hardest to guide the needle directly despite his shaking hands. He misses the first couple of times, but manages to get it eventually. He takes a deep breath, then pushes the plunger firmly until the contents of the vial are empty.

He waits. As he waits, he cries. He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t have to do this. Hannibal killed people, innocents. Hannibal killed everyone he loved, metaphorically and literally. Will should be working to catch Jack’s killer, to avenge the victims of the Chesapeake Ripper, not wasting himself away on drugs. Yet here he lies, hoping that one day he just won’t wake up. Or that, if he does, he'll wake up to Hannibal. He hates what he does. He hates what he hopes. He hates that he _lives._  Every time. No matter what he takes or how much of it, he always bounces back. None of those people wanted to die, and they did. Will wants it more than anything, and he can’t.

Will lies there, wet face on a wet pillow, and lets himself slip away.  


	3. Chapter 3

Coming down isn’t so pleasant this time.

He feels gritty, like there’s a loose layer of sand covering his whole body, scraping away at him. He’s restless and fidgety, but also exhausted.

And for once, he’s not high.

It’s probably why this feels vaguely familiar; maybe this is just what it is to be Will. It’s been a long time since he was alone in his own head. The objects around the room stay steady when he looks at him, for once not dancing around his vision until he’s not sure they’re actually there at all anymore.

It’s been at least four hours, he’s pretty sure, much longer than usual between the end of one high and the beginning of a new one. Not entirely by his choice, really, but it sort of is too, he thinks. Maybe.

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking.

Because now that it’s out of his reach, he kind of doesn’t want to do it anymore.

Because now he’s forced to deal, to accept, and he knows what they would say if they were here to see him falling like he is.

He’s hungry, he realises distantly, but also a little nauseous to the point he’s not sure if his hunger is really just a prelude to some kind of purge. There’s not really any food in him that he can remember, but more than enough toxins built up over the past several….how long has it been now?

He doesn’t know.

The realisation makes him sad. Will has no idea what day it is, what time it is, what month it is.

What would they say?

Will frowns. That’s exactly the kind of thinking that makes him want to lose himself.

Because he knows what they would say. Knows word for word what they would think of his new habits, and he snarls at himself for thinking about it because they. are. not. here.

They will never be here.

Hannibal made sure of that.

Will startles at the self deprecating laugh that accompanies that thought, because fuck, Hannibal needs to get out of his head. It’s not right that he gets to be here, alive, while his friends are dead or who the fuck knows where now - Abigail, his mind supplies for him, but he refuses, he will not think of her right now, or ever, if ever - and he’s left pining after the man that took everything he had with him to god knows where.

He’s such an idiot.

_A deranged idiot, at that,_ he thinks.

They should have kept him locked up, left him to rot in that cold cell until he died.

He’d have done less damage in there, probably. Locked safely away from the world behind steel bars, with nothing to destroy but himself.

But they let him out.

And now look where he is; where everyone he loves is.

Six feet under is a good example. 

Halfway across the world is another.

On the floor of his living room, faded.

Most of the time, anyway. Not right now. Because he’s out and he’s not willing to leave the house just yet to go find. He’ll wait until it gets unbearable, as he always does, because he always hopes maybe one day, he’ll be dry and then just.... won’t want more.

So he’ll take it while he can get it.

Until he can hear screams again, and broken sobs, and feel the pulsing of fresh blood under his empty palm. Until he can’t see anything but Hannibal and hear anything but Hannibal and feel anything but Hannibal, because he knows it’s coming, it always does.

So he waits.

He pays his dogs some much needed attention, giving them extra scraps and throwing things across the yard for them to play fight over. They seem happy enough, forgiving him easily for not spending time with them like he used to.

Maybe he should find them another home, he wonders, but stops when he starts thinking about who he would trust enough to take proper care of them, because that would have been Alana and she’s mostly gone and _no_.

_Stop_ , he tells himself. _This will last_.

 

He won’t succumb so easily, he's sure of it. Then again, he's been telling himself that for the past however long it's been, and he hasn't proven himself anywhere near right.

He will deal with this the way he should, by embracing it. It happened. There’s nothing he can do about it, not right now. He should be sad, he should grieve. He shouldn’t bury himself.

He has no right, not when there are people who he's had to lower into the ground who he - or anyone else - should have had to.  

He has no right.

It doesn’t last long.

Will makes it two days. Hannibal’s whispers start when he reaches - ironically - the eleventh hour. He’s counting them, because maybe if he counts it will make it easier. He hisses back at them, arguing. He knows he looks crazy, and that maybe it would be better if he just took the drugs, because then he wouldn’t be standing in his living room arguing with an imaginary cannibal.

They only get worse, or course.

He can’t sleep, because all he hears is Hannibal, whispering enticing things in his ear, and when he does all he sees is Hannibal.

It’s a little lucid, because he knows he’s dreaming but he’s not really in his body but sort of watching from above as his body sleeps on the bed below.

Hannibal is there. Of course he is.

Will can feel the ghost of his arms around him, can see Hannibal’s arms curled around his body that lays sleeping on the bed. Hannibal watches sleeping Will as lucid Will watches him. To anyone else, the embrace would have been endearing.

But Will knows that malice, the dangers of being curled up in that embrace.

He doesn’t care though, not really. Why should he? He’s just as messed up as Hannibal is. Besides, this is a dream.

Hannibal’s legs are tangled with his own, the arm that pillows Will’s head snakes around to stroke his nose, his cheeks, his hair.

Will finds nothing but peace in that embrace. There’s no anger, though there should be, no hate, though there should definitely be a lot of that. If anything, the knot in his chest and gut is, finally, unravelling. He feels more at peace in that embrace then he has without it in years.

And it’s just a dream.

He can tell he’s about to wake up, and he does his best to try and stop it, but if anything it only speeds it up.

Hannibal smiles, the fondness in his sharp gaze makes Will frown. He remembers when Hannibal used to look at him like that.

He misses it so much.

The arms are disappearing, taking the warmth with them, and Will is about to wake up but he has to say something, tell Hannibal something he just remembered because it’s important but _what was it_ ?

But then Hannibal is saying his name, softly, the words ghosting over his face in a short puff of air.

Sleeping Will groans softly, conveying that he’s listening but completely willing to actually wake up, and there’s another one of those fond smiles before Hannibal is speaking, and lucid Will struggles to understand what he’s saying, because he’s about to wake up, but finally he understands and, ha, of course that’s what dream Hannibal would say, the one thing to throw Will over the edge.

Hannibal always did know how to unravel him.

Well, that was short lived, Will thinks.

He’ll definitely be back on something by tomorrow.

He wakes with the words “ _come find me_ ” carved into his brain.


End file.
